


The Rock

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Child Murder, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Rimming, Short One Shot, Sibling Incest, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Top Mycroft Holmes, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 16:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock is devastated about a case that went terribly wrong. He comes to big brother for comfort - and of course he's not being disappointed.





	The Rock

Mycroft looks up, unwillingly narrowing his eyes. “Yes?”

The door opens and Anthea pokes her head into his office. “Sorry, sir.”

“I've told you I'm not to be disturbed.” He doesn’t get loud but he is upset. His PA should know better than to interrupt him after a morning with one appointment after the other, a sandwich gobbled down on his way from one meeting room to the other, and no time for scanning his MI5 reports.

“It's your brother, sir.”

For a second he is beyond alarmed but then he realises that nothing seriously harmful has happened to Sherlock, that there is no reason to hurry to yet another hospital bed. He's here.

“Send him in,” he says calmly, not giving away that he is both thrilled and worried to have Sherlock come to Whitehall in the middle of a work day. Something is the matter, and he doubts it is anything pleasant. And still he is happy to meet him, no matter what has brought him here.

He can see at once that something terrible must have occurred. Sherlock has dark shadows under his eyes and looks disturbed and defeated. His coat collar is down and his hair is a mess; he must have ruffled it quite roughly. Anthea throws him a worried look before she closes the door to leave them alone.

Mycroft has already got up from his chair. “Sherlock. Are you all right?” It's a rather silly question as he can see his little brother is decidedly not but the underlying request is, _'Are you physically okay?' 'Are you having a danger day?'_ Not that Mycroft really believes that. These episodes are in the past. Since they have got together as lovers after Sherrinford, Sherlock has not once touched any illegal substance and has also kept away from the legal equivalents.

“I am,” Sherlock rumbles, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse. He takes off his coat and throws it over a chair in the corner. “I'm sorry to disturb you…”

“Don't be foolish, little brother.” Sherlock has reached him and Mycroft pulls him into his arms at once. “You're not disturbing me at all.” The reports can wait. The appointment with Lady Smallwood which is due an hour later can be cancelled. If the PM wants to hear about the results with his meeting with Lord Harrison, well, he will have to be patient until Mycroft has time for him.

When it happened, when they decided to give this highly unusual and risky relationship a try, Mycroft swore to himself and his brother that Sherlock would come first. Not his job, not the country – Sherlock. Sherlock smiled and nodded, not really believing him, and Mycroft didn’t blame him, and so far he hasn't been forced to prove his sincerity as his duties have hardly interfered with his commitment to Sherlock, who is busy all day himself and has no time to sit in his armchair, whining about his lover not being available all the time.

But it seems that now is the time to fill his promise with life. “Tell me,” he says, holding Sherlock. “Tell me everything.”

And to his horror, Sherlock swallows hard as if he's close to crying. “I made a mistake, Mycroft, a terrible mistake, and as a result, a little girl is dead now.”

Mycroft freezes at the pain in his brother's voice and the devastating statement. “Come. Let's sit down,” he says, and he walks backwards, pulling Sherlock with him, until he gets to sit in his leather office chair, dragging Sherlock onto his lap as if he was a child himself. He knows nobody will come in now. Nobody ever comes into his – completely safe – office without having Anthea knock first and waiting for his answer.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment but then he slumps against Mycroft, his arm slung around his neck.

Mycroft knows he has started working on a case for the Met a couple of hours ago. A killer, having murdered three women already. Sherlock texted him that the police had failed to figure out it was the same person as the crimes had been committed in very different manners. And then he has been off to chase the murderer and Mycroft, tied up in his meetings anyway, has not heard from him again.

“I was so sure,” Sherlock mumbles. “I looked at the photos from the crime scenes and found out what the victims had in common. And I figured out it had to be this guy who had known all of them. A plumber to be precise. And when the police went there to arrest him, his wife kidnapped another woman and her daughter… It was her, not her husband!”

Mycroft nods and strokes his back, listening silently. It kills him to hear the pain in Sherlock's voice but he doesn’t show it, not wanting to add to Sherlock's distress.

“And in the end they could save the woman but the little girl… She was about Rosie's age, Mycroft. And if I had just drawn the correct conclusions…”

“If the cops had done their jobs right, they would have caught her long ago. It is not your fault.” Sherlock is not a policeman. He helps them because he loves solving puzzles and because he is very good at that.

But he has changed. Over the years spent with John Watson and his other friends he has become more emotional, softer; he has started to feel with the victims. Mycroft won’t forget the lengths he has gone to save the late Mary Watson from being exposed as a former killer…

And of course – he has deeply taken to John and Mary's little daughter. He has become involved… And now he's paying the price for emotional involvement.

“I know what you think,” Sherlock mumbles. “You think I got weak and now I'm getting the bill for it…”

“You are not weak, Sherlock, you _care_.”

“And caring is not an advantage…”

“Stop that, dear. Stop turning my stupid phrases against me.” Mycroft doesn’t get loud. He never gets loud, actually. He knows Sherlock is just hurt. He has come for getting comfort but it's hard for him to accept it. “Not everything is your obligation, little brother.”

Sherlock sighs. “And that from you? Who carries the weight of the world or at least this country on his shoulders?”

Of course he has a point. “We both care, Sherlock. And you know what I care the most about…” If anything happened to Sherlock, it would be his death. It has always been like this but now that they are so close…

“That the Queen reigns for another fifty years?” Sherlock teases him, and Mycroft is pleased to hear it.

“I'm sure she will. But no, love. You know I was talking about you.”

Long fingers play with his right ear and it tickles. “But it's not only me. You do care about the goldfish. You've proven it in Sherrinford.”

Mycroft is not very fond of being reminded of this bloody day. But then – they have found together in its aftermaths so he owes it a lot. Still… He does not like to be reminded of their _tasks_ of this day. “The goldfish are a part of our world, if we like it or not. We have to deal with them constantly. And in many regards we _are_ like them. We care, we love, and sometimes we are mistaken.”

Sherlock nuzzles his face against his cheek. “But I hate that,” he whispers. “I hate to fail and cause such a horrible mess.”

“You haven't caused it, Sherlock. You've been trying to help and you didn’t have all the information you would have needed. I'm sure nobody knew anything about this woman.”

“No. But I'm not _nobody_.”

“Of course not. You're my Lockie.”

That brings a smile onto Sherlock's beautiful face, just like he has planned. “And you're my Mycie, hm?”

“Always. And now let's go.”

“What? Where?” Sherlock pulls back to look into his eyes.

“My place. I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off.” It's already three pm. And the reports will still be there tomorrow.

“You can't! I heard what you said to Anthea!”

“Of course I can. And I will. I have important business to take care of.”

“Me?” Sherlock sounds as if he can't believe it.

“You. And you are my most important business.”

“You're such a romantic!” Sherlock mocks him, but his eyes are sparkling.

“One of my biggest treats,” Mycroft confirms. “We will have takeaway for dinner I suppose. Chinese?”

“You're spoiling me!”

“I do. I've always done, haven't I?”

“Shut up.” Sherlock kisses him and silences him very effectively.

And Mycroft is very willing to awfully spoil him for the rest of the day and the night. Sherlock needs it, and Mycroft needs it, too…

*****

Sherlock can feel the sadness that has engulfed him so horribly crumble when he's pressed onto the bed by his brother's weight. He eagerly slings his legs around him, in dire need of even more contact. A part of him feels guilty about allowing Mycroft to console him but the rational part of his brain tells him he's being stupid – feeling miserable and dwelling on his mistake won't bring Louisa Tanner back to life. Nothing and nobody will bring her back and hating himself for not having been able to prevent her from dying won't change a thing.

So he allows himself to be kissed and petted, and he greedily kisses back, his hands fumbling with his brother's expensive shirt. They have fallen onto the bed fully dressed except for their jackets and shoes. Sherlock can feel Mycroft's hardness against his groin and no matter how horrible this day has been, he is aroused now, too.

He hasn't gone to Mycroft's office to get sex. He has searched for comfort as he knows how deeply Mycroft cares for him.

Long enough he was blind for it. It needed Sherrinford and their sister's deadly games to finally realise it, and to realise how much his brother actually means to him.

There hasn't been a single moment between them when he hasn't felt loved since then and it's an amazing experience for a man who did have friends he cared about and who cared about him but who had never felt unconditionally loved until he opened his eyes and finally saw the man who has in fact always done.

Mycroft is his rock and his light and he is not ashamed to admit it, not so much with words but with actions. And he would only admit it to him of course. Nobody knows about their not that brotherly relationship even though sometimes he is not so sure that this includes Anthea. Especially today when she didn’t even try to send him away but instead knocked at his awfully busy brother's door to provide him with the comfort she must have seen he needed. But Sherlock is not worried about that in the least. If she really knows it, she will never mention it. Not towards Mycroft and not towards anyone else.

His hand slides under Mycroft's shirt now, stroking his soft, smooth back. They keep kissing, not parting for even a second, while they are peeling each other out of their annoying clothes.

Mycroft's cock is wet and dark red when he pushes it against Sherlock's groin, leaving a damp trace on his now naked skin. Sherlock is beyond excited now, hungrily grabbing his brother's arse cheeks, his middle finger searching for the hot, tight entrance.

But he doesn’t want to top Mycroft now. He needs it the other way around and of course Mycroft is aware of it. He pulls away just to lift Sherlock's legs above his shoulders so he can plunge his face into his crack.

Sherlock keels over when he's being licked by a hot, wet tongue. He can feel his hole clench frantically under his brother's ministrations and his hand is messing up Mycroft's usually impeccable hair even more, cupping the back of his head, urging him to go deeper, to reach his hidden insides.

He winces when his canal is being carefully filled with cold lubrication by Mycroft's deft fingers after a few minutes of intense rimming. They have sex like this so often that they can forego any lengthy preparations and soon Mycroft is sinking into him, encouraged by Sherlock's feet who are hammering on his brother's arse.

No words are spoken apart from an _'okay?'_ here and a _'ready?'_ there, answered by Sherlock with rather needy nods and grunts.

When Mycroft is fully seated in him, he starts fucking him in a steady, cautious rhythm, and Sherlock closes his eyes and allows himself to drift away from the thoughts and feelings of guilt and failure, from calling himself an idiot for missing the clues, for having fucked things up like a _human_ … He won't forgive himself so soon but he knows there is nothing he can do but to learn from it and do better next time so the next little Louisa will live and grow up like Rosie will hopefully grow up, being happy and loved.

And Sherlock too feels definitely loved right now and even though sometimes it's still hard to accept he deserves being loved, especially by the man he has treated like his worst enemy all his adult life, he lets it happen, lets himself be skilfully thrusted into oblivion, and when he comes, he rasps out a low cry and his lips claim his brother's mouth in an exceptionally deep, greedy kiss, and he groans when Mycroft empties himself into him, holding him close, telling him that he loves him, and Sherlock ends up being dragged all over his spent brother a minute or two later, being petted and caressed, and he finds that after this dark day, he feels, well, not at ease but grounded and spoilt and loved, and he knows whatever happens, whatever might trouble him next, Mycroft will always be there to spend comfort, give love and just be everything Sherlock could wish for.


End file.
